


Punishment to fit the crime

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Brotherly Love, Control Issues, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Gloves, Holmes Brothers, Humiliation, Jealous Mycroft, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, POV Mycroft Holmes, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Revenge, Riding Crops, Sex, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Has Secrets, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Mycroft finds out why Sherlock has a pair of Lestrade's handcuffs in a drawer in the bedroom. Naturally he isn't pleased and decides to teach his brother a lesson in decent conduct and behaviour, with a little added touch of pain and humiliation.





	Punishment to fit the crime

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nightly activities behind the enemy line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724788) by [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog). 

> A sequel to Nighthly activities behind the enemy line, which might be a good idea to have read first for a little background info.
> 
> Angry Mycroft is a vengeful Mycroft in this story, so beware of the tags.

“Get on with it, Mycroft!”

Sherlock had a way of taking impatience to a whole new level when he was in a certain mood and now that was apparently the case.

Mycroft supressed a sigh as well as the urge to slap his brother’s cheek for his insolence. It would be counterproductive at this stage though, they were far too gone in the game for interruptions and it would leave them both on edge and wanting if the mood was broken by a real argument at this point.

So, like his brother demanded, Mycroft inserted himself more firmly behind his younger brother and then pounded into him with more force than earlier. He could hear Sherlock pant and imagined his lips parted, the eyes small slits of catlike quality, close to being completely shut. He couldn’t see it, but he knew by know how Sherlock reacted when he was close to coming. He shut out other distracting senses like sight and hearing so he could concentrate on just feeling the sensation of Mycroft brining him to completion.

Ever since they had embarked on this frankly incredulous journey of meeting up for sex whenever John’s absence from the flat made it possible for them, Mycroft had thoroughly memorized all his little brother’s mannerisms while indulging in sexual activities.

Since that fatal decision to break into Sherlock’s bedroom to attempt to frame his brother’s infuriatingly irritating flatmate to acts of a sexual nature that Mycroft knew would not have been welcomed by Sherlock, things had gone in a completely unexpected direction. 

First and foremost it appeared that he had miscalculated his own reaction to being in an intimate situation with Sherlock, however staged that situation was, and what had surprised him even more was the fact that he hadn’t been able to tamper down these unexpected urges but instead had, quite instinctively, acted on them instead. 

It wasn’t much of a shock to discover that he wasn’t a creature governed by morals. He had disposed of such ideas ages ago, in his line of work you sort of had to and it had never been in his nature to look at things with the hindrance of a conscience. 

But still, this had been different. 

This had been about his own brother, the exception to every other rule he had set for himself, the one blind spot he actually had where cold logic didn’t always apply.

It had devastated him when he first had realised that he had a weakness concerning his brother. It would have made his life much easier if there had been nothing that could rattle his cage, but as he had come to accept that feelings worked in mysterious ways and there was nothing to be done about them when suppression had failed to do its magic, he had learned to live with this knowledge. 

But this recent development had changed things even further. Not only did he hold a soft spot for his brother, he actually wanted him in other ways than just in the fraternal sense. 

It had gutted him and as he had fled the scene he had vowed to not put himself in such a position again.

But temptation, just like his brother, had proved to be too much for Mycroft’s perseverance to remain. A few well-chosen words from Sherlock and a very enticing look in his eye and all Mycroft’s good intentions had been thrown out the window while he had risen from his chair, the umbrella falling to the floor with a soft thud as it landed on the carpet, his hands automatically reaching for the tantalising shirt buttons that kept his hands from touching that soft milky white skin his brother had underneath.

Despite the fact that John Watson had apparently been brooding upstairs in his room, straight above their heads, had not deterred them from falling into a passionate kiss in Sherlock’s chair, only interrupted when said chair had toppled over from their combined weight and Mycroft had fallen head first on top of his brother’s lithe body and pressed him hard to the floor. 

The sound of Mrs Hudson rapidly coming up the stairs as well as the door to John’s room being thrown open at this sound, a worried _“Sherlock, what’s that noise?” “Is everything alright!”_ coming from both directions, had forced the brothers to separate themselves from their entanglement.  
By the time John had stormed down the stairs, shortly followed by Mrs Hudson’s appearance, Sherlock was standing by the window, looking out with an indifferent look while Mycroft, who wasn’t as fast and nimble as his brother, was still trying to correct his attire to a more distinctive appearance, standing by the toppled-over chair.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Naturally John had pierced Mycroft with an angry look even if Sherlock, by sheer probability, was almost always the source of disturbance in everything he was involved with.

“Mycroft tried sitting in my chair,” Sherlock had said succinctly from his position by the window, not bothering to turn around and face the others. 

“And what? You fought him out of it?”

John had turned his attention to his flatmate now while Mrs Hudson had tutted disapprovingly at the whole situation. By the looks of her she had been occupied with a little “relaxational indulgence” downstairs and most likely didn’t approve of the disturbance from her erratic renters.

“I didn’t have to. The chair arranged it for me by toppling over from his considerable weight. The diet is clearly not doing you any wonders, Mycroft.”

John had given them both a calculating glare, clearly not believing a word of it. Sheer physics told him that the scenario Sherlock had presented him with didn’t seem plausible. On the other hand he had apparently learned when to let things remain unanswered as Sherlock wasn’t likely to provide a better explanation. 

“I would appreciate it if you could keep your petty arguing to a bare minimum of noise and lay off the furniture. Take it outside if you need to or better still, just let it be. I have work in a few hours and would like the time for some well-needed rest.”

Sherlock had opened his mouth to say something, by the looks of it a very scathing remark, but had then decided against it apparently and closed his mouth again. 

Mycroft had wondered if it had been a comment aimed at him or the doctor, secretly hoping that it had been for the latter. Despite the jab about his weight, Mycroft had felt elated and almost giddy as he had made his excuses, picked up his umbrella and left.

When Sherlock, a few hours later came by the Diogenes club, demanding Mycroft’s presence in the Stranger’s Room, he felt positive that the remark had indeed been intended for John. As Sherlock had straddled him quite feverously over the Edwardian sofa, making the teacups rattle in their saucers as his foot accidentally hit the table, he was certain of it. 

And here they were now, spent and still panting from the wave of orgasm still flooding their bodies, lying on Sherlock’s bed in the middle of the afternoon while John was grinding away his hours at a new clinic and Mrs Hudson was dosing in her bed after a offered cup of tea from Sherlock’s own personal blend, provided by Mycroft as a gift just recently.

The sex, it turned out, was surprisingly the easy part of this arrangement. It was the aftermath that always provided some difficulty for them. 

Used, as they were, to the specific dynamic that had always existed between them, the sex didn’t automatically change how they interacted with each other when the sexual part was over and done with. Even if Mycroft, to his own surprise, was more in favour of actually enjoying the moment a little longer and perhaps even remaining in bed afterwards for a little while, Sherlock was not the cuddly type and with his energy always threatening any calm situation, he was usually the one to interrupt the moment of intimacy. 

This particular afternoon though, he never got the opportunity as Mycroft, quite unwittingly, arranged for that outcome himself.

As he was lying with his arm still against Sherlock’s naked chest, feeling his brother’s heart pounding beneath his fingers, his eyes fell on the dresser that he had examined when he had been in the room during his earlier nightly visit.

Curiosity incidentally hit him and perhaps the endorphins still pumping in his veins made his usually logical thinking act surprisingly short-sighted, because before he could even assess the effect of the question, it was out of his mouth and hanging between them with all the implications such a question could muster.

“Why do you keep a pair of Inspector Lestrade’s handcuffs in your top drawer?”

He could feel Sherlock’s head turn, rather than actually see it, as his eyes were still on the dresser.

The tone in Sherlock’s voice made him tear them back to look at his brother though. It was decidedly icy.

“Even if your little intrusion in the middle of the night worked out surprisingly well for you, it doesn’t mean that I appreciate you going through my possessions out of some misguided urge to control everything about me.”

This, of course, sparked ire in Mycroft immediately.  
Even if he was well aware of his obsessive need of control, he hated the idea of it being thrown in his face at every given opportunity. This compulsiveness had always come out of a place of well-meaning and concern, it did in fact annoy him as much as it annoyed Sherlock, this urge he had to keep a constant eye on his brother’s whereabouts. But just like he hadn’t been able to control the urges that had led to the situation they found themselves in right now, neither was he able to control his need for trying to supervise Sherlock.

“A clear diversion of topic does not provide me with a satisfying answer to my question, Sherlock. I find it highly suspicious that you keep police equipment hidden away in your bedroom, and even more so when I consider the fact that the owner hasn’t asked for them back. It begs to question if you procured them from him yourself or if they are some sort of inappropriate gift.”

The fact that Sherlock hadn’t denied that they were indeed Lestrade’s spoke volumes right now and despite the aftereffect of their earlier activities still making themselves known inside Mycroft, it was quickly being replaced by a rising annoyance. 

Apparently, Sherlock was equally annoyed by now as he untangled himself from Mycroft’s hold and gave him a glare.

“Why does it matter to you what I keep in my own drawers?”

“I think you know the answer to that very well, Sherlock, even if I’m glad to say that I didn’t find anything more incriminating than a stolen keycard with my name on it.”

Sherlock had half-risen from his laidback position, resting on his elbows, a frown marring his features. Irritation was clearly beginning to rise, just as it was with Mycroft, if not more.

“Then why ask about a pair of bloody handcuffs if its drugs your worried about?”

“Because the question still needs to be asked why you have them. I know _why_ you have my keycard, and by the way, I might as well inform you that it is no longer active and therefore useless. The keycard is understandable even if it is stolen property and highly inappropriate. The handcuffs are _not_ understandable.” 

Like a viper, Sherlock had hissed:

“Are you jealous of everyone I interact with or do you save it for those you feel are so detrimental to your personality and appearance that they might actually attract me just for being a novelty to what you’re offering?”

Ouch. That actually did sting. 

Mycroft could hear the frustration in Sherlock’s voice and he knew his timing had been abysmal. Jealousy was such a base instinct and not a trait he was remotely proud of, but that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t trust Detective Inspector Lestrade one bit. And evidently, he had full reason not to do so as the words, like a torrent he had asked for but at the same time not been prepared to hear, came out of his brother’s mouth and revealed a scenario far worse than what he had at first expected.

What Sherlock angrily presented him with had happened a few years ago, unbeknownst to Mycroft and his intel, not caught on camera and somehow it had slipped completely under his radar even if he had always suspected that the Scotland Yard detective had more of an interest in Sherlock than just getting assistance at crime scenes. Mycroft had never thought the man would dare to act on it though, or if he foolishly had made any attempts, Mycroft had always assumed Sherlock would turn him down harshly enough.  
But apparently Mycroft had read the situation completely wrong and was now presented with a scenario that consisted of more than the Detective Inspector just innocently ogling a well-defined arse in pair of tight trousers. Apparently there had been _much_ more.

All this time, Mycroft had harboured feelings of animosity towards John Watson, even jealousy at times, and fear that the flatsharing and camaraderie wasn’t all that was happening under the shared roof of Baker Street. But clearly he had missed a much more obvious threat that had been around for far longer.

All the times he had wasted asking his brother about when he would consider throwing the doctor out of his flat, something that apparently wasn’t happening anytime soon (“It’s not _my_ flat, Mycroft, we actually share the rent!”) and not once had he seriously considered the implication of the handcuffs that Sherlock kept in his top drawer in the bedroom, along with the mysterious black leather gloves. And now, suddenly, like a cold hard slap to the face, Sherlock uttered these fatal words:

“I have his handcuffs because we used them to chain me to the bedpost a year and a half ago when his wife was out of town and he came to visit me in my old flat at Montague Street. The cuffs ended up in one of the boxes when I moved and I never bothered to give them back. Besides, he has plenty of others so it’s not like he has missed them.”

After the initial shock of silence, this admission naturally led to an argument of enormous proportions. 

Because despite the fact that Sherlock was a bit of a tease and very fond of riling his brother up to get a reaction, he wasn’t as fond of Mycroft when his brother became fiercely jealous and Mycroft wasn’t fond at all of the idea that his brother was a tart that allowed an older married policeman to tie him to the bedpost of his own bed for entertainment, mostly likely to stave off boredom.

“It wasn’t _only_ because I was bored. I was intrigued what he would actually do. Surprisingly he wasn’t half-bad. Much better at sex than he is at his job.”

And that’s when Mycroft slapped him hard across the face. The pale skin began to blossom straight away from the impact.

Sherlock reacted like a hissing cat, fury flashing in his eyes, but instead of retaliating, he stormed off, his dressing gown flapping behind him like a pair of wings as he rushed out of the room and slammed the door with excessive force, risking to rouse Mrs Hudson out of her drug-induced slumber.

And this was now the situation Mycroft found himself in.

After a few deep but useless breaths to try and control his anger, he had left the flat in a hurry, after having quickly dressed himself and then emptied the entire drawer from all its content and thrown it down his briefcase that he had conveniently brought with him. As he had crossed the livingroom to get to the stairs, he had seen no sign of Sherlock. 

Luckily, as he had been furious enough to slap him hard on the other cheek if he had been there.

Instead he had simply left and returned to his office where he had stewed in his own jealous anger and resentment, cursing his brother while simultaneously wishing to harm the Detective Inspector profusely.

As time went by and turned into days of silence between them, he found that he and Sherlock were now participating in a dead-lock where neither of them were willing to budge. So he decided that retaliation was the only solution to this problem as he was neither prepared or able to just swallow this recent development and simply move on. 

The fact that Sherlock continued to flaunt his association with Lestrade by letting himself be caught on camera while standing on a crime scene next to the man, quite close actually, if you looked hard enough, just a few days after his fight with Mycroft, spoke volumes.  
The distinctive bruise on his cheek where Mycroft’s hand had landed rather forcefully was on full display as well and John Watson had been caught by surveillance through the livingroom window, sitting on the couch with a wad of cotton pressed gently at the injured cheek. What Sherlock had told his flatmate about its origin was not Mycroft’s problem, but he doubted John had been told the truth.

As much as it would have pleased Mycroft to include Lestrade in his plans for punishment, even he could see the injustice in punishing someone for a fully consensual sexual act that had taken place over 1,5 years ago, however much he hated the idea of another man’s hands on his brother naked body.  
A nagging little voice at the back of his mind whispered that if Sherlock had managed to have sex with Lestrade without getting caught by surveillance once, who knew how many other times he had done it? If he was perhaps still doing it? The handcuffs were after all still in Sherlock’s possession.  
But even Mycroft knew this was jealousy talking and jealousy had nothing to do with logic. Without evidence, these thoughts were nothing more than that, baseless imaginations conjured up by a suspicious mind.

No, this time, it would be all about Sherlock, and the lesson he needed to be learned was that he under no circumstances could throw information about previous sexual partners in Mycroft’s face with such clear arrogance as he had done. To say that Lestrade hadn’t been half-bad in bed, in fact better at sex than at his actual job, mere minutes after having had sex with Mycroft, was so callous that it even went beyond Sherlock’s usual arrogant behaviour. 

Mycroft wasn’t completely certain of what the outcome of his actions would be in the long-run. Retaliating usually meant that the road back to the way things had been before would not be easily attained, and despite the anger he felt, he missed Sherlock more than expected now that they no longer shared any intimacy. But the need to punish him was far greater than anything else right now and consequences could be dealt with afterwards.

So duly, Mycroft arranged for a good old-fashioned kidnapping of his brother, at a time when he had conveniently arranged for John Watson to be trapped on the tube along with all the other commuters due to a problem with signalling, unable to be reached by phone and be contacted in any other way. 

A well-timed leak in the sewage system of Baker Street forced Sherlock out of the flat. As expected he was in a temper, especially as Mrs Hudson was yapping away around him in full distress over the foul smell coming from the flat, in the end forcing Sherlock to escape her by predictably fleeing aimlessly out of her reach and making him an easy target for the men Mycroft had sent to procure him off the street.  
Unlike his usual modus operandi, Mycroft didn’t send men in dark suits and a car with tinted windows this time to do the deed. Instead he used a group that did their best to melt into the environment, dressed in ordinary attire and seemingly normal citizens out for a walk in Regent’s Park. It was very telling that Sherlock was sufficiently upset by having been forced out of his flat so abruptly and unable to reach John by phone to complain about it, that he didn’t pay enough attention to his surroundings and was consequently easily attained by Mycroft’s men. 

Instead of the usual abandoned warehouse where people were normally brought to meet with Mycroft, Sherlock was instead delivered to Mycroft’s country house, blindfolded, gagged and cuffed, unbeknownst to him but intentionally chosen by Mycroft, with Lestrade’s old handcuffs. 

Upon arrival to the house, Sherlock was unceremoniously left in one of the bedrooms, now cuffed to the bedpost in a case of poetic justice, as well as his legs tied with nylon rope to the bed to properly secure him, widely spread apart. After that the men left the house and Mycroft was alone with his brother. 

As Sherlock was gagged with a rather large rubber ball in his mouth, he was rendered speechless, but Mycroft suspected that he had by now figured out who the culprit behind his abduction was. Even if criminals every now and then made attempt of kidnapping and even trying to kill Sherlock, few of them had neither the resources nor the effectiveness of this sort of abduction. The fact that Sherlock hadn’t fought back after the initial reaction at being jumped in the park spoke volumes as well. 

Having Sherlock exactly where Mycroft wanted him, he decided that he had no rush getting started with proceedings. Taking the time to appreciate his captive, he stood by the door and watched his brother spread out on the large bed, tied securely to the four posts, unable to speak, see or move. 

It was quite a thrilling sight to behold and it sent a jolt of excitement through Mycroft’s abdomen, pooling down to his lower regions. 

But patience was after all one of his stronger assets, playing for the long game had always been more thrilling than just throwing yourself head first into a situation and when deciding that he had seen enough, he closed the door and left.

He even returned to London to drop by his office, get some work done and then enjoy a piece to eat at a restaurant he seldom visited alone as he didn’t like to mingle with others when not strictly necessary. But today he made an exception and ordered a well-prepared filet mignon with duchess potatoes and a glass of Sauvignon while screening frantic calls from John Watson who had apparently escaped his entrapment in the underground by now and been faced with the mess that was their stinking sewage problem at home. 

The fact that Sherlock’s phone was switched off and hidden in the glove compartment of the car that had brought him to the country house, meant that John had begun to pester Mycroft for some answers instead. After the nineteenth call, Mycroft finally picked up with a bored drawl.

“Doctor Watson. You seem _very_ persistent to get my attention.”

Not bothering to analyse the condescending tone Mycroft used, John barged straight ahead with the purpose for his desperate calls. 

“Do you know where Sherlock is? There’s been a....._situation_ at home, and I’m not necessarily blaming him, but well.....”

“But you actually do?” Mycroft asked before taking a sip of wine, only giving the other man a small percentage of his attention. He had nothing to say that Mycroft wasn’t already aware of after all.

He could actually picture John Watson standing in their smelly flat, drawing his hand over his tired features while trying to not fully lose his temper.

“It doesn’t really matter at the moment. But I’ve had a really horrible day, there was problem with the tube on my way home from work so it took me hours to get home and then this mess welcomed me as soon as I opened the door. Apparently its something wrong with the sewage and it's affecting the whole street. And Sherlock’s nowhere to be seen of course. I’ve tried phoning him, but it seems he’s switched his phone off and Lestrade hasn’t seen him either. Then I tried Bart’s but...”

_You’re boring me doctor._

After another two minutes of rambling Mycroft managed to steer him off topic by stating that he didn’t know for certain where Sherlock was right now but would look into it and be in touch if he discovered anything that needed John’s involvement.

“May I suggest that you let him be for the time being, most likely he is off somewhere doing whatever it is that he does when he cares nothing for those around him who worry. “

And with those parting words he ended the call, finished off his meal and ordered the car to take him back to the country house.

He arrived well past nine and it was already dark outside, not to mention inside as well as he had not sent for any staff to prepare the place and had not bothered to turn any lights on before leaving earlier.

Not that it would make any difference to Sherlock, he was blindfolded after all.

As he navigated himself through the darkened house, for a second he felt an irrational fear gripping him that his brother, who was more cleaver than most people, and quite the escape artist, had managed to free himself of his bonds. 

But as he hurried up the final stairs to the bedroom, he needn’t have worried, he knew what he was going to see even before reaching the open door.

Despite the darkness, he could make out the silhouette of his brother on the bed. 

He was very quiet and for a second Mycroft wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep. It was a rather uncomfortable position, all spread out and the gag in his mouth, not to mention the blindfold. 

If the picture of Lestrade cuffing Sherlock to the ratty bed in Montague Street didn’t bring such immediate anger Mycroft could almost have sympathised with his plight. As it was now, he felt more anticipation than actual empathy. 

As if Sherlock could sense that his brother had returned, he suddenly jolted from his quiet position and began to trash as well as he could against his confines. It didn’t result in anything of course, Mycroft’s men had done a thorough job of imprisoning him, so Mycroft felt secure enough to enter the room, still a little vary, as if approaching a tiger caught in a trap, but still confidently enough to not remain safely by the door.

Turning on a lamp standing on a small table, a soft light spread in the room and removed the slightly eerie feeling of watching a black creature trash about in the dark. It still didn’t quite look like Sherlock but close enough, the hair and the clothes were decidedly him, but the face looked different and odd with the gag and the blindfold on. For a second it felt like staring at a stranger.

Mycroft walked over to a briefcase he had brought with him earlier and pulled out the black leather gloves he had taken from Sherlock when he had emptied his drawer. 

He put them on with precision, savouring the feeling of the smooth material against his skin. If nothing else, his brother had always had impeccable taste in clothes, and these were no exception. Clearly of good quality. 

They were a bit tight, Mycroft’s hands were bigger than Sherlock’s, broader, even if they both had long elegant fingers. He had no idea what exactly his brother used these for, but as they were stashed away in a drawer in his bedroom with a collection of other secretive items, it was a good guess that they had been used for some sort of sexual activity, not necessarily with Lestrade, maybe he just put them on to help himself to arousal, who knew? It didn’t matter. They were in Mycroft’s possession now and he was going to use them while performing this task.

With the gloves in place, he brought out another familiarity from the Baker Street flat.  
It had not been in the drawer but it would still serve his purposes, so he had made sure to order its removal from the flat just two days earlier. If Sherlock had noticed, he had not yet raised any noise about it is far as Mycroft knew and most likely, as it had been found forgotten under the sofa, his brother hadn’t detected its absence so far.

It was Sherlock’s riding crop.

Weighing it in his hands, with the leather gloves on and the tied-up man with a gag ball in his mouth, spread out on the bed, this was beginning to feel like one of those sadomasochistic dungeons some of Mycroft’s colleagues visited a few times a month, with a mixture of guilt and glee in their eyes. Those experiences were going to be tame in comparison though. Mycroft wasn’t here to pleasure Sherlock; he was solely here to deliver punishment.

With the gloves on and the riding crop in his hand, he finally went over to the bed and his waiting victim. 

Sherlock still had his hearing to rely on and with the sound of approaching steps he stopped trashing about and calmed down. He turned his head in the direction where he thought Mycroft would be standing, but as he was unable to say anything, he just remained in that position. 

It felt slightly eerie to look at him despite knowing that it was just Sherlock. The softness of the light had not improved the feeling of having someone in his bed that Mycroft felt he didn’t quite know. Despite having fucked Sherlock a few times already and witnessed him in his sleep in a highly intimate position, this was something different. This was darker, more twisted. But perhaps it was better this way, looking at it as someone he didn’t really know, instead of thinking about the fact that it was his precious baby brother. It would make things easier.

Mycroft put the riding crop next to his brothers face before he reached out to undo the blindfold. He wanted it to be the first thing for Sherlock to see when being given his sight back. 

As expected, those catlike eyes widened as Mycroft nimbly removed the blindfold, first most likely because he tried to adjust them to the light but then clearly in what looked like surprise and then...

_Horror? _

Good then. A satisfied tingle made itself known in the pit of Mycroft’s stomach.

Letting his eyes roam his brother’s body from head to toe as if he hadn’t done so quite thoroughly earlier, he wondered if he should get started on the clothes straight away or wait a little while. Either way they would be ruined and that was a shame as they suited Sherlock very well, but needs must as the saying went. Mycroft found that he had used that saying plenty of times regarding actions he took against his brother.

Deciding that it could be interesting to start off with the clothes still on and later dispose of them as intended, he broke his assessing stare and reached for the riding crop.

It was tempting to hold a little speech, let his brother know exactly why he was subjected to this treatment to begin with, but declarations of such character were really only for the simple-minded that couldn’t figure out things on their own. 

Sherlock knew what he had done, he had stubbornly refused to feel regret or sympathy, the words of forgiveness never having crossed his lips. That was fine in a way, it was in his nature to be unrepentant, but that didn’t mean his behaviour should go unpunished. 

So, choosing to forego any speeches, Mycroft simply raised his hand and then, with a swift motion of his wrist, let the riding crop hit Sherlock straight across his chest. 

To Mycroft’s satisfaction this produced an immediate tare in the fine material of the shirt and beneath it he could see the trace of something beginning to blossom angrily in comparison to the otherwise very pale skin. Naturally Sherlock’s body jerked from the impact, but he didn’t begin to fight his confinements again, as would have been expected from anyone else. Sherlock was never like anyone else.  
For one thing, he was stubborn and headstrong, difficult to break down. It was part of the reason for them being in this situation now.

In a quick succession, very much in remembrance of that caning their grandfather had given Sherlock all those years ago, Mycroft delivered a series of strokes across his chest, abdomen, ribs and lumbar region, making a swift ruination of the delicate shirt that tore easily into shreds of fabric, soon enough mingling with the blood that had begun to seep from the wounds that the riding crop produced. 

Mycroft had decided to not look at Sherlock’s face while at work and when stopping to catch his breath it was easy to stick to that rule. He didn’t want to meet his brother’s eyes right now, just continue with what he had started and bother with consequences afterwards.

He put the riding crop down on the bed and walked over to the briefcase once more and pulled out a big pair of scissors. It was time for the second part of the procedure, the, if possible, even more humiliating part. Humiliating for Sherlock at least and for himself, surprisingly rewarding. 

Mycroft had deep down always been vindictive, in all aspects of life.  
He was uncaring and cold and calculating on the surface but never forgot a slight, as many could attest to through the years. It was a weakness of sorts, it meant he cared on a certain level about things that should be indifferent to him, but nonetheless, he felt the urge to retaliate and couldn’t tamper it down even if he had wanted to. 

In this case, the need to do this was greater than any regret he might suffer from afterwards. It was a short-sighted way of thinking that didn’t fit with his usual calm logic but it was pure instinct, an animalistic need to seek revenge.

Still without looking at his brothers face, Mycroft methodically began to cut open what remained of the ruined shirt until he could easily remove it without having to make much effort. 

Then he set about doing the same to the trousers. They were of a fine quality, designer label even if not bespoke like his own clothes and it felt like cutting through silk with the exceptionally sharp scissors. 

Soon enough they were ruined as well and he was faced with only a pair of black pants still clinging to his brother’s exposed body. Despite the dark colour it was easy to see the outlines of what was hidden beneath the fabric and to Mycroft’s surprise and reluctant arousal ,despite his wish to keep this as pure punishment, he could see that Sherlock was rock hard. 

It would have been very tempting to reach out and touch, under other circumstances he might have even done so, but now it felt like acting against the rules, the same way it had felt during that night sneaking into Sherlock’s bedroom when he had first discovered the desires that he up until then had been oblivious to. It had felt so compelling to reach out and touch what had been presented in front of him, but at the same time it had felt decidedly wrong and, in the end, that feeling had prevailed and he had fled the scene instead of indulging in something he would have regretted in the morning. 

This wasn’t exactly the same situation though. He had already succumbed to his sexual urges with Sherlock a long time ago, he had slept with his brother on several occasions, sucked his cock dry, pounded into him with full force, licked the semen off his body, a notion he up until that moment had not pictured himself doing to anyone. 

But it had also exposed him to hurt and anger of a new variety than the type of hurt Sherlock had inflicted on him in the past. The idea that Sherlock had slept with Lestrade on at least one occasion, handcuffed to a bed and rendered completely vulnerable to everything the older man had wanted to do to him, cut through Mycroft like shards of glass and his brother’s brazenness about it all afterwards had hurt him to the core. 

So, no, there would be no indulging his brother by relieving some of the pressure he must be feeling by the look of his erect cock pressing against his pants. This was all for Mycroft’s benefit.

Therefore, ignoring the tantalising image of his brother’s throbbing erection, he turned his back on Sherlock for a second to put the scissors away, before turning once more to pick up the riding crop. 

With a swift motion he let it fall, this time on the naked thigh in front of him and it actually jerked quite forcefully from the impact. The sensitive skin of the inner thigh was so much more delicate than the other parts he had previously hit. But despite the obvious pain, it still made Sherlock’s cock twitch as well.

For some reason this made Mycroft angry.

This wasn’t for Sherlock’s pleasure. 

It was about learning to treat Mycroft with the respect that he deserved, and hopefully not indulge in any further sexual activities with aging Detective Inspectors from Scotland Yard, married or not. Former army doctors with temper issues and prone to look for adrenaline kicks and abuse from infuriatingly difficult flatmates was naturally also out of the question.

So, deciding to cut the theatrics, Mycroft put the riding crop to the side for a little while and then began to unbutton his own trousers instead.

Not unsurprisingly, considering the image of his brother’s semi-naked body that he was subjected to, Mycroft was already half-hard. It was only thoughts of revenge that had prevented him from growing fully erect at the sight of his brother’s trashed and exposed body.  
Welts were covering a majority of Sherlock’s upper body in an intricate pattern and if they stung now it would be nothing compared to the pain his brother would feel in the morning. 

Mycroft wasn’t a particular fan of inflicting pain to others and the idea of punishing Sherlock this way had not been a given at first. But when recalling the hurt and humiliation he had felt when finding out about Lestrade and then remembering how Sherlock had looked when their grandfather had punished him with the Malacca cane all those years ago, the pieces had all fallen into place and a plan had formed itself quite easily.  
This was not exactly as he had imagined it, but on the other hand, nothing with Sherlock ever was and Mycroft wasn’t done yet.

As he pulled out his cock, Mycroft began to stroke it, slowly at first but soon enough he picked up the pace and noticed how it began to grow between his gloved fingers. Speeding up his movements, he soon enough brought himself up to the point of desired release and then climbed up the bed to stand directly over his brother. With a suppressed cry he came, squirting his semen all over Sherlock’s trashed skin, mixing white with red as the wounds were still in such a raw state that it was bound to sting profusely.

This actually produced the desired effect as Sherlock began to squirm, and a quick glance at his face finally revealed pain and discomfort in his strained features. He was still unable to cry out on account of the rubber ball, but a gurgling sound was actually being produced from his throat despite the obstacle.

Mycroft made sure to relieve himself completely before lowering down so he was seated directly on Sherlock’s cock that was pressing hard against him through the fabric despite the state of agony he was in now. 

Mycroft bent forward to look Sherlock straight in the eyes as he spoke.

“This is me telling you what happens to naughty little brothers who are too cocky for their own good and in dire need of a lesson in humiliation.”

He grinded himself against Sherlock’s cock and saw how his brother, despite himself, tried buckling up against the movement. To put a stop to the attempt at friction, Mycroft forcefully smacked the wound on the inside of Sherlock’s inner thigh, and this resulted in the desired effect. Sherlock fell back down on the bed and what sounded like a muffled cry in agony was heard through the ball.

“Good boy, you’re beginning to learn I think.”

With that Mycroft rose from his position and this time Sherlock didn’t attempt to follow his movements with his pelvis but remained still on the bed.

Mycroft went over to the nightstand where a box of tissues was conveniently located and he cleaned himself up roughly before pulling his pants and trousers back up and buttoning them. Then he held up his hands still wearing the black leather gloves so Sherlock could see them closely before he picked up the riding crop.

“This,” he said, waving the riding crop in the air in front of his brother, “is going to be returned to you after tonight so it can serve as reminder of what activities it has been used for. The gloves I have decided to keep, as a reminder to myself that there is a limit to my lenience with you. The handcuffs will be desposed of. Their usefulness has come to end and are not to serve as a reminder of anything, neither past nor present.”

A glint of something undiscernible flashed in Sherlock’s eyes for a second before it was gone again. Mycroft felt too spent to analyse what that glint had actually meant. Surely, his brother wasn’t sentimental enough to miss a pair of handcuffs? Sherlock had never been prone to attaching himself to objects of sentiment before. If so, Mycroft had gravely underestimated the connection he felt for Lestrade.

It didn’t matter. 

Mycroft needed to leave while he still had the force to do so. He was beginning to feel as if he had been through a cataclysm and survived it, but still unsure if everything was still intact.  
At this moment it didn’t matter though. He would have to assess damages later, now was the time for retreat.

He looked down at Sherlock who was staring up at him, emotionlessly. 

“I’m going to leave you here to contemplate the events of the evening. By tomorrow morning my men will come to take you home. What you choose to take away from this ordeal is your own choice, but be aware that if you want to continue what we started a few weeks ago, you may only come to me with this lesson thoroughly learned. I’m not going to insult us both by asking if I’ve made myself understood. If you do seek me out, it will be sufficient proof that I have made my point loud and clear.”

With that Mycroft turned around and left.

The car was still waiting for him on the driveway and if the chauffeur noticed that his employer looked slightly rumpled, he naturally didn’t comment on it but only started up the car and waited for directions of where to drive.

When Mycroft finally reached his home in London, he made the effort to clean himself up despite being dead tired. He didn’t want any traces of his actions still lingering to his body now that he was done with what he had planned. When he finally made it to bed, he fell asleep immediately.

For the following two days, things stayed eerily quiet.

He knew that Sherlock had been returned to Baker Street and John had made a racket about the state he had been in.  
Mycroft had left some spare clothes on a chair in the room where Sherlock had bee held prisoner but his brother had opted for not wearing them and naturally his state had been so much more striking when displayed like it had when he had stepped out of the car, more or less naked, angry wounds covering his torso as well as a long tear across his inner thigh.  
Mycroft wondered if Sherlock at least had bothered to try and clean himself up a little bit before leaving the house. He knew his men would have given him that opportunity.

But after that initial check-up to see that Sherlock was returned as promised, Mycroft didn’t keep any closer tabs on the surveillance of his brother and all the questions that swirled through his mind remained unanswered. 

He would never let go of the control he had always had regarding supervision of his brother’s activities, but if Sherlock decided that he wanted nothing more to do with Mycroft after this, things would return to the state they had been in before embarking on their sexual journey. Mycroft would never completely let go of Sherlock, merely stop fucking him.

Secretly he wondered if that would be the result of his actions and as the third day came and went without contact, he was beginning to brace himself for that outcome. But as he sat in the car on his way home from a very late meeting, looking at the London traffic passing by outside his window, his phone alerted him to an incoming message.

As he tapped the screen, he saw that it was the security intel informing him of unauthorised activity in his home and then the obligatory question asking him if he wished to proceed with action.

Something reminiscent of a breath he had been holding for far too long released its grip of him and he drew a deep breath before replying with a simple _“No”_ to the text. 

Then he proceeded to type in another message to a different number. 

_Breaking and entering? Following in your brother’s footsteps?_

He stared at it for a second before hitting send.

If he had been a man who was used to the sensation of relief, this would have been one of those moments. That feeling of being elevated hesitantly returned, unsure if it was still allowed to make an appearance, but generously he indulged in it as he leaned back in his chair and waited for the car to reach its destination. The shadow of a smile played at the corners of his lips.

A few seconds later a new text arrived.

_I was at a Chinese restaurant today. My fortune cookie said: “When faced with the dilemma of standing at a crossroad, it would be unwise not to pursue down a well-trodden path.” I’m inclined to agree with the cookie. P.S Those gloves were never used for sex. I used them while examining corpses at the morgue. Just to let you know. _

This time, Mycroft actually did smile, while suppressing the shudder he felt at the thought of those gloves touching his penis earlier.  
His little brother, always with the need to have the final word.  
But that, Mycroft could live with.


End file.
